Page 5 of Bitten, Marked, Obsessed

I hear Mom’s voice, muffled and sharp. She's on the phone, pacing. Something about her tone prickles under my skin—it’s the voice she uses when shit’s gone sideways.

I pull on leggings and a hoodie, not bothering with makeup. My hair’s a mess, silver streak sticking up like it’s trying to signal for help. I stumble down the stairs barefoot.

She doesn’t hear me at first. She’s in the kitchen, clutching her phone like it’s the only thing holding her upright.

“...yes, yes, I understand. We’ll be there soon. Thank you, Doctor—yes. I appreciate it.”

Click.

“Mom?” My voice comes out cracked.

She spins like I slapped her. Her eyes are wide and bloodshot. She looks like she’s aged five years overnight.

“Oh, Kendall.” Her voice breaks. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

“What happened?” I step closer. “Who were you talking to?”

She opens her mouth, then closes it again. Her hands shake as she sets the phone down.

“It’s Adora.”

My stomach drops.

“What about her?”

“She… she went out last night. Late. I thought she was just going for a walk, but—” Her voice catches. “There was… an incident.”

I feel like I’m falling and not hitting the ground.

“What kind of incident?”

“She’s at St. Anne’s. The hospital called me this morning.”

“Jesus, why didn’t you wake me up?”

“I didn’t want to scare you.” She says it like that makes it okay. “They said she’s stable. But she was attacked, Kendall. Something—or someone—hurt her.”

“Attacked?” I repeat, numb. “By who?”

“They don’t know. She was found collapsed outside of town, near the old mill road. Bruised, bloodied, unconscious.” Her voice cracks again. “I’m going there now. Come with me?”

I’m already grabbing my keys.

The hospital smellslike bleach and grief. I hate it.

Mom’s grip on my arm is too tight as we walk through the sliding doors. Her fingers are ice. The receptionist recognizes her instantly and waves us through. Apparently, trauma makes people efficient.

We ride the elevator up in silence. I can feel the words she’s not saying pressing against the walls. The worst part? I don’t know if I want her to say them.

Room 312. I push open the door gently.

Adora’s lying there like someone pressed pause on her life.

Her face is pale. One eye’s swollen shut, and there’s a jagged line of stitches across her forehead. Her arms are bandaged, bruises blooming dark on her collarbone and ribs. She looks like she got hit by a truck—or mauled by something worse.

“Jesus,” I whisper, heart cracking open. “Dora…”

Her good eye flutters open.

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